


Into the Linear Black

by subjunctive



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Asgardian Dirty Talk, F/M, Hair-pulling, Huddling For Warmth, Loss of Virginity, Maledom/Femsub, Manipulation, Porn With Very Little Semblance of Plot, Pre-Canon, Rough Sex, at least sort of, in coitus veritas, not quite hatesex but definitely antagonistic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 17:32:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1193691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subjunctive/pseuds/subjunctive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A younger Loki and Sif take refuge in a cave during a blizzard, and end up learning more about each other than either had ever wanted to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into the Linear Black

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from a Seamus Heaney poem. Like 99% of Heaney poems, it's about digging. Figurative digging, see? I can metaphor with the best of them.
> 
> Originally written for Porn Battle 15, for the prompts "virgin, hair pulling, rough, dirty talk, triumph," although I finished it a bit too late. Also fulfills my trope_bingo square for "virginfic."
> 
> Came back to make a few much-needed edits and expansions. I ended up adding about ~300 words.

Sif was still shivering when they had made it into the cave, and with relish she began tearing off her vambraces and breastplate even before beginning to peer around the place. Despite her eagerness, Sif was careful to lay her armor in a neat stack on the cave's floor, next to her glaive. Snow had collected on her, too, worming its way under her armor and, where it was near her body, melting, so that she was damp everywhere. She shook what she could out of her hair and looked over to Loki.

He was muttering to himself – always running his mouth – and had stripped to his breeches. He must have caught the feel of her eyes, however, because his gaze darted up to her from where he was bent over with his boots. Smiling slightly – it was not a nice smile – he looked about to say something, and whatever it was Sif didn't care to hear it, so she intervened.

"Lucky there aren’t any creatures here."

"Ah." He seemed to shift focus, looking disappointed. "Yes, _lucky_ , indeed."

"Unless you had something to do with it?" she said impatiently. Petulance had always been his favored way of interacting with others.

"I may have scared a family of deer out while you weren't looking," he said delicately, and now he was in his underthings. Sif was still clad in her tunic and trousers, and despite the seeping cold, she was reluctant to remove them, for reasons she couldn't quite articulate.

"How brave of you." At the dryness in her tone, Loki looked annoyed. He didn’t say anything, but seemed to lay out his clothes with rather more vigor than strictly necessary. She felt a headache beginning to form between her brows already.

"Well?" His tone was sharp. "Are you going to get out of those or what?"

Rolling her eyes, and knowing she couldn't refuse without a production, she peeled off the rest of her clothes and tossed them over. She kept her breast binding and undergarments, though; that was armor enough. He could deal with the wet blood if that was what he wanted. She ran her fingers over the area where, mere minutes earlier, there had been a wound long enough, and deep enough, to kill. Now the skin there was bright pink and as tender as a bruise, and she winced at her touch. Still, there was something satisfying about it. It would scar, she thought, and handsomely. "Going to dry them for us?"

For a moment there was silence. "No."

"Oh?" she teased. "A simple drying spell too much for his highness?"

Loki huffed, and his words were reluctant. "I _may_ . . . have used up too much magic healing you and then bringing us here. Which you have yet to thank me for, by the by."

"Too bad," she opined. "We could use a fire, and it's a bit too late to wander out there looking for firewood." Her skin was still damp in places, and the whispers of a breeze chilled her.

He must have caught her shiver, because he was looking at her speculatively as he sat down. Though not before letting his eyes sweep over her in a more assessing way. Ah, yes, Sif thought, that was why she hadn't wanted to take off her clothing. Loki had a way about him that was always vaguely threatening, like he was sizing you up, or probing your weaknesses. Still, she let her arms hang at her sides, despite the urge to cover herself, and glared at him defiantly.

"I suppose, in absence of another source of heat . . ." he said suggestively, leaning back against the wall.

Sif grimaced and shifted her weight to the other foot. "Must we?"

"We must. If, that is, you wish to continue the hunt tomorrow. If in fact you would like to be alive at all tomorrow."

She knew the wisdom of it, even if she didn't want to admit it. It was not as though they had never done so before, although never by themselves. Despite her misgivings, and avoiding his gaze, she tucked herself between Loki's legs and settled back against his chest. Thankfully, he made no move to embrace her. Her wet hair, however, was trapped between them. "Sorry," she mumbled at the realization, pulling away, but his too-quick hands had already gathered up her locks and tucked them over her shoulder. His fingertips brushed along her collarbone, leaving the lightest imprint there, and then he pulled away.

Rather than think about that, Sif decided to grouse. "How do you never seem cold, anyway? Your skin is as cold as mine, but you never show it."

"I do not know." He sounded bored.

"Magic, I am sure," she declared, but it had little heat behind it. At the cave mouth, snow was accumulating alarmingly. If it kept up at the same rate, they'd have several handspans of snow blocking their exit in a few hours. How long would they be here? A night? Two? Longer?

"Perhaps I am merely of an improved stock."

Before she could help herself, she snorted, and felt him stiffen behind her. Too late, she realized how he would have taken it, and sighed. She'd have had the same reaction to Fandral or Volstagg saying the very same thing, but Loki always took every imagined slight so _personally_. Undoubtedly he would say something sharp and cutting in response. It was his usual way.

"As though _you_ would know," he sneered, "daughter of a stable-man that you are. My father might have owed your father the smallest of favors, but that doesn't mean the apple falls far from the –"

" _My_ father saved _your_ father's life," Sif reminded him, aiming her elbow at tender flesh and savoring his howl as the blow landed. Not quite just recompense for the slight to her family's honor, but it would do for now. "Without him, you wouldn't even _be_ here."

She twisted against him to watch the cave mouth as it gradually darkened. (She was sure the sharp bone of her shoulder digging into him discomfited him, which was pleasing.) Even if she had stood at its entrance, she was sure she couldn't have seen more than an arm's length away.

"And so his first-born child was promised to be one of the King's warriors," he recited, sounding bored. "Tell me, _how_ disappointed was he when he found out you were a girl-child?"

He caught her elbow as she thrust it behind her this time, and held her fast. "Now, now, that's not very maidenly behavior," he chided.

"I claimed my birthright," said a disgruntled Sif, jerking her arm away, "even if it took some time. And persuasion."

"And running away, as I recall. Though I don't hear you denying the _maiden_ part," he said slyly.

Sif's mouth snapped shut with an audible click, and for a moment her mind went blank for a response. So like him to latch on to the most insignificant of details.

"Oh?" Under his amusement there was a clear undercurrent of real surprise. Damn. If only she had _said_ something, anything. Whatever answer she gave always seemed to be the wrong one, when Loki was the hearer. "Despite your every effort to appear as boyish and unfeminine as possible, you have never taken part in the warrior's spoils alongside your dear comrades?"

Exhaling audibly in annoyance, Sif shifted away from him as much as she could and didn't answer. She found herself grateful for the shadow of the cave, that her face was hidden. How could she offer up her reasons to Loki without fear of amusement or ridicule? It was unfathomable.

"Though I suppose there are somewhat fewer men ready to fall into the arms of a woman warrior than the reverse," he mused. Even Loki had no trouble finding partners, so far as Sif knew; he had charm, when he chose to use it, and the sense of entitlement that being born into royalty provided. Not to mention the title itself to recommend him. "Still, I expect you could find a more than willing partner in, say, Fandral –"

Sif groaned. "That peacock?" She felt the line of Loki's thigh against hers - had he moved it? Surely she had just failed to notice.

"He would probably send flowers the next day," Loki suggested, humor lilting his voice, "although they might be sent to _himself_ –"

"Oh, he would," snorted Sif, relaxing. Behind her she could feel him breathing, chest rising and falling, and her with it. She fancied she could hear his pulse thrumming under his skin, quicksilver and mercurial as himself.

The air in the cave seemed warmer, now, or at least she was more aware of it, and of herself too. His breath puffed against her ear.

"I suppose it would be a chore to find someone who could keep his mouth shut," he murmured. Fingers rose to trace a line down her arm. He had strange moods. "Couldn't have it getting out that Asgard's own shield-maiden, first woman warrior, was using her position to . . . satisfy herself."

"They would treat me differently than the men. And if you are wondering how I know," she added with some acid, "they already do."

"Unlike our friends, you need not treat me as though I am blind." A hint of scorn, she heard, but then his voice changed to something more serious. "You are in a . . . difficult situation. If it _is_ difficult for you?" His question was phrased delicately, and the pattern he traced on her shoulder more so. When he lifted his hand away, her skin, where he'd touched it, prickled.

How to answer? He saw through bluster quicker than any other deception. She only swallowed.

"It is difficult to defy expectations. It can be . . . Lonely. Would you take the opportunity if it presented itself?" He shifted against her and all she could feel was his skin, miles of it.

Hearing the unspoken question in his voice, Sif's breath caught. She ran her tongue across her teeth and debated silently within herself. At any other time or situation it would have seemed ridiculous to her. Even if they had some more light, she would have thought it stupid. But there was something about the wilderness, the isolation, the press of his body in the darkness, that made it seem like a good idea, or at least a bearable one. This was a chance.

He leaned forward then, and his mouth was very near her ear when he said, low as you please, sending a shiver slithering down her spine, "Well, Sif?"

"What you said – about keeping your mouth shut?" It came out breathier than she expected, or wanted. She did not much like showing weakness, especially not to Loki.

She could imagine his frown, brows furrowing – at either the slight against his honor, or the suggestion that she would want to keep a tryst with _him_ secret, she did not know. Likely both. But he only said, smoothly, "Of course."

Sif nodded, knowing he could feel it.

The callouses on his fingers were unexpected, rough on her skin – she had thought his magician's hands to be smooth, soft. But that was her thoughtlessness, of course; he bore weapons as often as the rest of them, if enchanted and sometimes strange. One of his broken fingernails dragged painfully on the sensitive skin in the fold of her elbow, and she drew breath sharply, twisting against him. One arm wound around her, tight, pulling her flush against him, and the other skimmed over her belly, testing the soft skin there. Without thinking, she arched lightly into his touch, and felt more than heard the breath of his chuckle ghost over her.

_It must be so obvious,_ she thought dimly, embarrassment coiling in her gut. That no one had touched her. Not that she had wanted, anyway, not like this slow drawing-out of heat within her. 

He continued stroking her, exploratory and careful, his touch light and deft: mapping out her shoulders, her back, her belly, her thighs and arse - she lifted to let him squeeze there, fingertips digging in. All her gasps were drying her mouth.

Her breast binding was tight - it had to be in order to work properly - but he worked the fingers of one hand underneath, kneading and rubbing at the flesh there, which, once cool, warmed to his touch. When his thumb dragged over her nipple, she gasped, the sound too loud surrounded by the silent weight of the cave. He did it again. It sent heat to pool in her belly, a sudden flood of wet warmth to her cunt.

"Truly?" There was something rougher, huskier about his voice. "No man has ever - no one's hands or mouth have -"

In retaliation, she pushed back against him, squirming. "None," she panted. He made a sound in the back of his throat, and the edge of his teeth scraped over the skin at her neck.

His other arm had loosened so that his fingers could skim her inner thighs. Two instincts warred within her: almost automatically she began to close her legs at the intrusion, and at the same time she wanted to let them fall open further. The latter won out, so that her knees pressed against his, and he sighed in appreciation.

"And yet, despite your innocence, were I to test you now, I think I would find you ready for me already." His voice was the lowest murmur, one finger tracing the edge of her undergarments tantalizingly. Tease, she thought hatefully. "What do you think, Sif? How wet are you?"

She swallowed, feeling herself without suitable weapons at this engagement. "I suppose you'll have to find out," she managed.

His hand slipped under the thin cloth, cupping her, letting one finger stroke up her center. She bucked against him, restraining her cry so that it sounded more like a whine. "You _are_ wet," he said with satisfaction, and she could feel it too, how slickly his fingers moved against her. With two fingers, he spread her open and found her nub. If she were by herself, she would have wasted no time and gotten, businesslike, down to the matter at hand; but Loki seemed to have something else in mind. Instead, he teased her, drifting close and then moving away, exerting the barest hint of pressure as he circled her, sliding one finger through her slit before retreating.

"And you -" She was finding it harder to speak, head a little dizzy. "You are insufferable. As always."

Then he was dragging one finger up through her, much more firmly, and rubbing the underside of her pearl in a way that made her cry out and lean back against him, canting her hips up. He made a satisfied sound at her reaction, and eased up on the pressure; she clawed at his thigh, trying to maintain some semblance of control, but it was futile. Breathing heavily, she braced herself back against him and rocked her hips against his light strokes, wanting something harder, firmer, more sure. Without warning, he changed the angle of his hand, and when she moved again, one of his fingers slipped inside her, just to the first knuckle.

Before she could help herself, she pushed herself against his hand, so that her cunt swallowed his finger to the second joint. It was too good; it was not enough. The angle wasn't very good; it stung, some, where his finger was pulled against her, stretching her open, but she found she didn't mind: even liked it a little. She let out another breath, quick and ragged, and raised herself so that she could bear down on him better.

"What do you want, Sif?" And for all his famed self-control, she heard a tremor in his voice.

"Isn't it obvious?"

Perhaps to punish her, he let his finger pop out of her with a wet noise. He laughed at the noise she made then, regretful and desperate, and only let his finger skate over the damp patch on her thigh.

Unable to bear his mocking any longer, she reached behind her and, fumbling to find his cock, palmed it through his leather breeches. Loki made a surprised noise, and it was her turn to chuckle; then he pushed her away.

Sif felt a firm hand on her back; from the way she was sitting, her knees pulled tight against herself and her weight on her feet, the force of his push rocked her forward to her hands and knees, landing with a smack against stone that jogged her bones and drew a gasp from her. His hands pulled at her undergarments, pushing them down till they were bunched at her knees. The air in the cave was cool on her bare skin; a whisper of wind brushed between her legs and made her shiver.

Loki was occupying himself managing his own clothing, presumably. She chanced a glance over her shoulder, though she couldn't see much in the shadows, just heard the rustle of cloth and laces. His fingers sought her out again, probing open her lips, testing her wetness with the tips. He drew a line with one down to her pearl, circling it once, almost lazily. "Well, dear Sif, are you ready?"

She only growled at that, hips bucking. Infernal, insufferable boy –

Before she could complete that thought with more invectives, she felt the tip of his cock – that had to be it – pushing at her entrance. For a moment it was only pressure, but then came a sudden sharp pain – he felt so _big_ , even if she had noticed nothing unordinary about his girth – and she swayed away from him instinctually, with a small cry.

Catching her with one hand, he stilled her movement. "Do you wish to stop? You know, I do not believe I have ever seen the lady Sif retreat before."

Clenching her jaw, she shook her head. She _would_ bear it.

When his prick probed at her once more, she quieted her hips if not her mouth. He grunted – was it difficult for him as well? Or perhaps pleasurable; men often spoke of tightness. Moving more slowly this time, the head pushed into her, and she cried out, seizing up out of reflex. It felt as though she were being split open on his cock, the pain white-hot and fierce.

"Sif," said Loki through gritted teeth, "you must relax."

The stone was cold against her hands, so she leaned down to touch her forehead to it – behind her he made a sound – and took three deep breaths. Focusing on her muscles, she relaxed her shoulders and arms first, then her upper back, her torso, and finally her lower back and cunt. It still hurt, almost unbearably, but he slid into her smoothly the rest of the way with a low groan. His prick, seated in her – she could feel the full length of it, stretching her tight. She raised her head, and he gave it to her again, pulling back and thrusting in. She stifled a cry. 

A maiden no more, she thought suddenly. She knew the feel of a man's cock, of _Loki's_ cock, as he drove it in to her. Sif thought she might have felt something sliding down her leg. Warm.

The pain receded to a dull, mild throbbing, to her relief, while the pleasure of friction increased; it wasn't long before she found herself gasping at every thrust, slick but not without a tantalizing friction she found she wanted more of. On a particularly rough thrust, she let out a moan before she could stop herself; it echoed through the cave dimly.

"Oh," Loki said, and if he was out of breath it was only a little, "that _is_ interesting." He snapped his hips against her again, hands holding her hips hard enough to bruise, and she cried out, canting her hips back. He made a low noise – she felt it more than heard it – and one of his hands reached forward to slip under her loosened binding and grasp her breast, pinching and twisting the nipple viciously so that she gasped and writhed.

"Lady Sif, I would not have expected this of you. Do you think," and there was a clear gasp in his voice now, "do you think Thor would do this for you? Your Thor?"

Sif gave a protesting whine at the mention of his brother. She did _not_ want – and yet – 

"I suspect not," continued Loki, speech reduced to short bursts. "Besides his – obvious disinterest in your _womanly_ charms – such as they are – I don't think you would want him to know – about your particular tastes?" He drove home the last point with a thrust so brutal she nearly sprawled forward on her elbows. Against the cold stone, her knees were beginning to ache.

With a breathless chuckle, he removed his hand from her breast and reached between her thighs again. His thrusts eased, cock moving more shallowly within her, while his fingers found her nub again and circled, pressing hard. Gasping at the friction, Sif arched and pressed herself back against him.

" _Yes._ " Loki was near crooning now. "This is what you want, Sif, isn't it?" The way his prick was slipping into her an inch or two and pulling back – it left her feeling bereft and empty, it was maddening, it was not nearly enough. "What you _really_ want?"

Sif tried to rock back on his cock, but his free hand wouldn't let her, staying her hips. He was stronger than he looked, she thought through her haze. "And what do I really want? _Loki_ ," she said through gritted teeth.

He sighed at the sound of his name, and when he spoke his words were more carefully enunciated, as though he were making a sustained effort to appear calm. "Someone to best you. You fight so valiantly in the practice ring. Waiting to be defeated – for someone worthy enough – but no one is, ever." His tone changed to something darker, though still velvet. "Until now. Don't you forget that it was Loki Odinson who breached your maidenhead and gave you what you most wished for –"

She felt something low drop in her stomach at the truth of the words, and huffed her denial of it.

As quick as a viper, he knotted his hand in her hair and _yanked_ – it was like fire - tears pricked her eyes until she allowed herself to be pulled back so she was seated, rather awkwardly, in his lap. Her back was flush against his chest. From this angle he could not thrust into her so easily, but that apparently wasn't his intention.

Instead he used his free hand to rub furiously at her apex, her thighs shaking with the force of his movements and with the effort to stay in place. His arm, tight around her, pressed up against the freshly healed wound at her ribs, bruise-tender, and the pain left her dizzy for a moment. When she returned to herself, her head was still pulled back against his shoulder; he was whispering obscenities in her ear harshly.

" – come, Lady Sif, I would see you spasm on my cock, knowing it was the second son who gave you such pleasure, so much that you screamed for it, _writhing_ for me –"

In her hair, his hand twitched, needles on her scalp, and when it approached he did not slow, so that it barreled over her all at once. Her cry was more surprised than pleased, as she clenched and shook around him, almost sobbing with relief.

His hand in her hair was the only thing holding her upright as she sagged, coming down slowly with great gasps. She could feel his prick still stiff and heavy in her, though, and his abortive, mindless little thrusts from his position below her.

She heard his voice in her ear, much less calm and controlled than before. "Well, Sif? How did you like that?"

Quickly, Sif thought. When she had decided to go along with him, she had not expected him to make _love_ to her, by any means, but she had not expected him to make war, either, to assail all her weaknesses so thoroughly.

War she was more familiar with. And she knew that war could be won by many means.

Carefully she leaned back against his chest, reaching down to where their bodies joined so that he didn't slip out. With her other hand, she cupped the back of his neck, threading his short curls through her fingers. She turned to kiss his jaw, noting that his breath was coming in deep guttural lurches. A muscle jumped in his cheek at her touch.

She did not have to fake the breathlessness in her voice as she said, "My prince?" His muscles tensed beneath her, arm around her middle tightening. From this position she could not move too freely, but she could circle her hips a little, enough to elicit a groan from him. So she did it again. He buried his nose in her hair, breathing deeply.

"My prince," she said again, working herself against him, " _my_ prince, so skilled – no one sees you, but I do, patient – and longsuffering –"

She could feel his jaw working under her palm, straining under the effort of something she did not know.

"Do not –" And he was almost incoherent now, some broken, needy quality in his voice she had not heard before, audible even muffled so. And still, caught in the throes of his weakness, he thought to order her around. "Do not presume –"

"The wise son," she breathed, her body a sinuous line, a noose to hang him with, "the good son, would that Odin make _you_ his heir, so worthy, _my king_ -"

At her final words he made a choked, cut-off noise, then, and stiffened, spilling his seed in her in quick hot pulses.

It was over within a few moments. She didn't move until his body slackened behind her and he began breathing again, heaving at first but soon settling down. Gently, as though she were afraid of breaking something, she pulled herself from him and turned around, leaning back and crossing her ankles. His cock was softening. Already she could feel her blood and his spend mingling and trickling down her thigh; the cave smelled of copper and musk. The cleanness of winter's cold would wipe it away soon, she knew. It was done. 

The silence seemed heavy, full, as she watched him, running a hand through his hair, not raising his eyes to look at her. His refusal to meet her gaze sent a frisson of fear through her stomach. It occurred to her that he could be spiteful, that he might seek revenge.

"You promised - you wouldn't say anything -" she began, and though she would have denied it her fingers scrabbled at the stone beneath her. Her weapons were not at hand. Traitorously a tremor ran down her spine to her cunt, and she felt a dim throb of pain and pleasure both. A reminder.

His eyes flashed, and she thought it had been the wrong thing to say, but then it seemed to fade from his expression. Pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead, he shook his head. "It would be to neither of our advantages, I expect," he forced out with clear reluctance. His breath came ragged and hoarse. "The details, I mean." The possibility of mutual destruction, Sif understood him to be saying. Rubbing his hand over his face, he sighed.

"Come on, then." Weariness laced his voice. Sif didn't understand, until he gestured for her to come to him. The surprise must have shown on her face, because he snorted impatiently. "Unless you care to freeze? If you prefer," and there was that silk again; he had already begun to recompose himself neatly, "we may lie back to back."

They arranged themselves gingerly, each retreating at unintentional touches, until they finally settled into a facsimile of forced relaxation. Sif had positioned herself to look outside: still it was snowing. Whether it was an hour, a day, or a week, the storm would let up and they would leave the darkness of the cave. The hunt would begin again. All there was left to do was wait.


End file.
